


Profiting from Rumour

by Wolfram_Hart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Daily Prophet, EWE, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friendship, Gen, News Media, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-01-16 12:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18521329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfram_Hart/pseuds/Wolfram_Hart
Summary: Hermione is certain on three points: she was not "a lonely afterthought at Potter and Weasley's fabulous wedding" (thanks, Skeeter 2.0), the Prophet's reign of false news must be ended, and she willnevertrust a prejudiced ferret to solve her problems, whatever Ginny says.Ginny reckons that a) as far as the Prophet's lies are concerned, revenge is best served burning hot and b) for Hermione and Malfoy, a fight for a fair press is basically foreplay.Harry, meanwhile, knows just one thing: his wife is a terrible match-maker.Let the chaos begin…





	1. "The Prophet has been known to make mistakes..."

“I love Harry!”

Hermione’s fireplace flares as someone strides out of it. Hermione is on guard immediately, her wand pointed at the fire, tea that she was drinking spilled down her pyjamas. She realises quickly - before she has fired a spell, thank Merlin - that it is Ginny, and not some rabid fan, yelling their love for Harry. Ginny often surprises Hermione at her flat: she insists she is saving Hermione from becoming a Ministry slave, though Hermione reckons she's just bored in Quidditch off-season and doesn't believe in owling ahead. But eight in the morning is a time of day Ginny definitelydoesn't believe in. Something must be wrong.

“You love your husband,” Hermione echoes. Today is her first free Sunday in months and she has _plans_ , which include the newest issue of Potions Quarterly, visiting Luna’s exhibition and many more cups of tea. Her plans did not, up until this minute, include a startlingly irate Weasley.

Ginny collapses onto Hermione’s sofa. “I trust him. I respect him.” 

“That’s… good?”

Ginny bounds back off the sofa and paces up and down Hermione’s living room, a folded paper in her hand. “He’s good with kids - don’t look at me like that, Hermione, I’m not pregnant, yet - he’s considerate and he’s brilliant in bed now I've trained him.”

“Are you re-writing your marriage vows? Because you might want to leave out the sex part, for Ron’s sake.” Hermione’s brain is still stuck on _not pregnant, yet_. She’d known the two of them wanted children, hypothetically, and Ginny is twenty-five so it’s not completely absurd. But _babies_.

She puts aside her mug of tea, resting it gently on the coaster, and returns to the immediate problem. “Ginny…” she begins.

“But screw _this_!” Ginny shouts. She slams the paper she was holding on Hermione’s side table, making it rattle. “Merlin’s sagging ass-crack, _I am done with it_."

Hermione glances at the paper. **_Potter cheats again_ _?_** reads the _Sunday Prophet_ headline with a picture of Harry with his arm around a black woman beneath. She’s scared for a moment that Ginny thinks it is _her_ , but she’s never worn her hair in dreadlocks.

This was the front page almost every wizarding household in Britain received by owl this morning. Poor Ginny. Poor _Harry_ , because it’s all a load of bollocks.

Still, it was Harry who was usually angry at their lies. Ginny took all the crap they wrote about her with a laugh. Last Friday they’d even played a drinking game to get through _Witch Weekly’s_ four-page pullout, _21 Steps to Avoid Becoming Ginny Weasley and Learn to Really Satisfy Your Man_.

There had been a lot of firewhisky. Hermione’s memory is a bit blurry after _Step 16: compliment his member, and use his favourite pet name for it!_ But Ron had definitely turned scarlet when Harry mentioned ‘Roonil Wazib’ and Ginny loudly whispered something into Harry’s ear that Hermione was trying very hard to forget. Horntails are  _not_ an animal she wants to think about in that context.  

“I’m not worried about Harry cheating,” Ginny says.

It doesn’t answer why Ginny is pacing up and down her carpet.

“He’s  _Harry._ ” Ginny sounds dismissive of the very _idea_ , and thank Merlin, because Hermione’s not sure she could bear a crisis like that in their relationship. “It’s about George.”

“George?” She grabs the paper. _Oh._ The woman in the picture was Angelina, and they don’t stop at just identifying her. A box in the bottom corner tempts the reader onwards:

  * Discover how Angelina Weasley cruelly replaced the boy she loved with his neglected twin (and his Gringotts vault helped too!) [p.4]
  * Harry Potter’s unique appeal to grieving war-widows (he came back to life and we love him for it!) [p.9]
  * Drama at the Holyhead Harpees as Angelina and Ginny bat it out (literally!) [Sports, p.18]
  * Our predictions on how the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes empire will be split in the inevitable divorce [Business, p.28]



“Someone threw a howler-bomb into George’s Diagon store an hour ago,” Ginny says. “There was… a lot of yelling.” 

Harry has some intense fans. Their reasons weren’t always clear. Who knew whether this hater was furious at Angelina for breaking up Harry’s marriage, angry that she stole _their_  chance to break up said marriage, or annoyed at George for failing to fulfil Angelina sexually. Basically, a horde of Romilda Vanes scaled to infinity and crossed with a pack of veelas.

But George is a joker. He lives for that stuff.

“Didn’t George get a good laugh from it? He wouldn’t believe any of their lies.” In fact, throwing explosives into Wheezes was almost egging him on.

Ginny sighs, and sits herself down on the sofa for a moment. “Hermione, Angelina _is_ cheating. I only just managed to calm George down.” 

Oh,  _Merlin._ The Prophet had this way of finding that blade of truth to stab you in the heart. Sure, Harry could publicly declare that he was faithful to his wife. They’d accused him of romances with almost every woman in his life, and there was no evidence that could incriminate him. But then people would start to ask why Angelina didn’t swear the same.

“Did George know, before?” 

“I think he chose not to,” Ginny says, resigned. Marriages, Hermione is beginning to learn, are complicated things. Her own parents had such a long, contented one, and she herself hadn’t managed a relationship longer than a year, that she hadn’t realised how inaccurate the image of dull, happy lives together was.

She wants to be angry at Angelina - hasn’t George been through enough? But the Prophet will punish Angelina beyond any deserving. 

Ginny kicks the side of the sofa. “I _hate_ it. It could ruin George’s marriage, and for what? Sell a few more copies of this rubbish? And there’s nothing I can  _do._ ”

It is, Hermione knows, Harry’s fame that has ruined this. They follow any woman Harry is caught with an arm around; she's dealt with thatenough herself. Ginny must know, and that’s why she’s ranting to Hermione rather than her husband. Because Ginny does love him, and Harry would only feel guilty.

“We need a plan,” Hermione states. Ginny is a woman of action, and Hermione will be damned if she lets her friend mope. “We are going to fix the awful lack of press regulation in Wizarding Britain. We are going to return journalistic integrity to this nation.”

“And throw dungbombs at the lot of them!” Ginny declares.

“I’m not so sure-”

“George’ll love it. A marriage restored through exploding dung. It’s exactly his forte.” Ginny sends the Prophet into the air with her wand, and with a look of glee fires an _incendio_ into its centre. Black ash falls onto Hermione’s carpet, and she’s not even tempted to cast a fast _scourgio_. It’s _good_ to see it burn.

“So,” Ginny rubs her hands together. “What’s the plan?”

 

Hermione relocates them to the kitchen, with a new cup of tea for herself, a flask of coffee for Ginny, and sets the pans to make a full English for both of them.

“First, allies. Who has the media treated unfairly? Obviously we’ll bring Harry in.”

Ginny winces, and Hermione raises an eyebrow at it. Her friend shifts uncomfortably on her chair. “Harry has big dreams.” 

“He’s idealistic,” Hermione agrees. “Which means he’s perfect for initiating change.” Ministers used the word _idealistic_ against her like it was an insult, and she loved watching their eyes the moment they realised it meant _too damn stubborn for them to beat_.

“ _Your_ idealism is perfect for changing the world,” Ginny counters. “When the world shits on your dreams, you fight even harder. Don’t you wonder why Harry doesn’t go into politics?”

She rolls her eyes. “He says politics frustrates him. Or it bores him, which is ridiculous, because it’s about everything that _matters_.” Honestly, it feels like explaining the greatness of _Hogwarts: A History_ to them again. Hadn’t she proved right, that it was important?

“It doesn’t make any sense to him, Hermione. He thinks people should treat each other fairly, because he treats people fairly, and he thinks anyone who has experienced hardship should be kind, because he’s kind.”

It’s… a surprisingly accurate read of Harry’s character, at least since the war ended and he lost that streak of self-destructive anger. It explains why he was so gentle to Narcissa Malfoy during and after her trial, why he so stridently defended Snape's memory. He believes, at a fundamental level that she doesn't think any of the rest of them who fought on his side really do, that people are redeemable. That most of the world is fundamentally good. It explains why politics so often disappoints him.

She wonders how long Ginny has been wanting to say this to her, when Hermione has pestered Harry to support her latest political campaigns. Has she been hurting him by doing so?

“You know he’d do everything he could to support you and George on this anyway,” Hermione has to say. “Even if it didn’t think it would work out.”

“I know,” Ginny says. “But in all likelihood, this won’t work. Can we just wait until we have a better chance at success, to tell him?”

“It’s your call. Who could we get on board instead? Who else has the Prophet ruined the life of?”

“Draco Malfoy,” Ginny declares proudly, like this is her winning hand. 

“ _Malfoy_?” Hermione repeats incredulously. “Are we talking about the same spoilt pureblood? Last I heard he was swanning off to Europe on Daddy’s money, accompanied by two incredibly hot Italian models.” 

It is Ginny’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“… Which I now realise might be a media exaggeration,” she finishes smoothly and grudgingly notes his name down as number one on her bullet point list. “Anyone else?” she asks, trying not to sound too desperate. She’ll be damned if she relies on a Malfoy for progressive social change.

Ginny smiles sweetly, as if this is all a lot of fun and they aren’t considering including a ferreted betrayer in their plans.

Hermione reminds herself to breathe. “We need more people, Gin. A sense of what we’re dealing with, how much public support there would be to install regulations on the Prophet.”

“I have some contacts,” Ginny says. “How about I pursue those, and you chat to all your people.” Ginny waves her hand in the air, as if to summarise Hermione's millions of contacts. 

But  _who_ though? Almost everyone Hermione talks to these days are Ministry people; she couldn’t bring them into a campaign against _the_ Ministry-aligned paper.

And who else? She never made friends easily the way Ron did, and when they broke up a year after the war, most of their school friends kept more in contact with him than her. Luna agreed about all the problems with the _Prophet_ , but after Xenophilius had died she’d shut down _The Quibbler_ press and looked devastated the one time Hermione dared to bring it up. Lee Jordan would have been her next call. His radio show was wizarding Britain’s favourite for alternative (read: honest) news. But Ginny argued with him a couple of months ago – she didn’t know over what – and they had actually brawled at the Leaky. It got so violent Neville had to break it up. Ginny and Lee hadn’t talked since.

She looks down at her list. “Malfoy it is.” In her peripheral view, she watches Ginny’s smirk spread wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to update weekly, hopefully in longer chapters than this one if it goes well and people are interested!
> 
> As for what future chapters will be like? I'm thinking slow-burn romance, political shenanigans and getting the old crew back together to fight a new fight.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione fills in Ginny about the set of basic press regulations she has drawn up as they shop in Madam Malkins for dress robes for the Ministry ball. Scathing articles about “ _Hermione Granger’s feeble attempt at a joke_" had taught her that wearing last year’s robes was acceptable from men but blasphemy for a woman (that particular article had been written by none other than Pansy Parkinson - one of the  _Prophet_ 's favourite gossip writers and proof that Hermione had committed some terrible sins in a past life). 

The dress shop is buzzing with parents buying Hogwarts gear and excitable eleven-year-olds point and stare at the two of them. Ginny returns to her new favourite subject the way Ron segues into Chudley Canon’s chances in the league.

“Malfoy wouldn’t object to a visit, you know. He’s even almost friends with Harry.”

It’s been a week since they made plans to take down the Prophet, and Hermione has spoken to everyone with even the slightest connection, apart from _him_.

She sighs and casts a _muffliato_ around the two of them. “Well Harry’s more forgiving than most.”

“Than any of us,” Ginny agrees fervently. Hermione tries not to be offended; she _knows_ she isn’t as kind as Harry.

“It’s strange,” Ginny says. “Of everything, I still can’t forgive Lucius giving an eleven year old the opening to the chamber.”

“That wasn’t Dr-Malfoy’s fault."

“No,” Ginny says. “And yet, that’s what I think of. Though I _also_ can’t forget those half-naked pictures in _Witch Weekly_.” Ginny smiles into the air. “Yes, that really does overtake any childhood crimes, doesn’t it? Those _mag-ni-fi-cent_ abs.”

She only hums in reply.

“Really Hermione, I work with Quidditch players, so I see my fair share of hot bodies. And _that one_.”

She knows Ginny is exaggerating for her benefit, but God they were fine. Panties dropped, nation-wide. One of the Ministry secretaries had the full spread magi-glued to their desk for months. The heading was usual tabloid trash: _Bad Boy Reveals All_.

But she noticed that none of the pictures displayed the faded dark mark on his arm fully. There was always a hand covering it, or a prop, or he kept his body turned sideways. She couldn't know whether it was the editor's decision (bad boys are hot commodities, but prejudiced neo-fascists perhaps _less_ so) or whether he had been honest when he spoke about how awful it felt on his body, years ago, when the two of them had spoken in a way she had naively assumed  _was_ honest.

Ginny turns serious, speaking to Hermione in a lowered voice between aisles of dress robes. “I always suspected you had a thing for him in seventh year, you know. You two seemed to watch each other, for all you never talked. But after graduation you didn’t once mention him, or visit him, or anything. If you were crushing, your method of approach looks a lot like retreat.”

“I started dating your _brother_ after graduation, Ginny.”

“And that meant you couldn’t be friends with a beautifully-muscled bloke?”

Ginny is coming dangerously close to a secret she doesn’t want to share. She rifles through robes for a distraction and finds a burgundy silk creation that would drape beautifully over Ginny’s slim, athletic body. Ginny grins at her and mouths “later” but still takes the robes from Hermione’s hands.

As Ginny talks to Madam Malkin about potential tailoring, Hermione vows that she will discuss Quidditch for the next two hours if it keeps them off the subject. Ginny barely spoke to Malfoy in their final year and Hermione had let her assume that she was the same. She couldn't bear to go back into it now. 

*** *** ***

See, in the first two months of Hermione’s NEWT year she _did_ hardly speak to Malfoy, and tried not to think about him. Thinking about Malfoy would bring back the Manor, and Bellatrix knifing prejudice into her arm, and staring up at their chandelier, screaming.

He was in all her classes except Defense, but he chose seats at the back and worked in silence. The professors didn’t call on him, and he didn’t talk to anyone, so she kept on ignoring him, and that was fine.

In the Gryffindor Common Room students complained about his eerie silence, saying he was hiding another malicious plot, and planned attacks on him. A year before she would have bristled and interfered - there was no bravery in attacking first - but this time around she was too busy not thinking.

The only person with anything interesting to say about Malfoy was the Headmistress, with whom she started having weekly tea. It was almost like Harry and Dumbledore, but with none of the saving-the-world and instead a no-nonsense approach to rebuilding, both the school and, Hermione began to realise, her own fractured life.

According to McGonagall, Malfoy quit Defense because he thought a Death Eater casting aggressive spells would likely end in panic attacks, and he offered to leave any other class where he caused distress. Apparently he’d asked that Hermione and Luna in particular be consulted. She’d told McGonagall it was fine - everywhere she turned there was a reminder of the war, he was only one more. (That had earned her one of the professor’s stern looks, and a recommendation to _have another biscuit, dear._ )

So with all that mutual avoidance in place, she could have gone the year without any interaction.

But on Halloween, a party was planned in the Great Hall after the feast. Hermione wore startling red robes, cut at the thigh - Ginny’s pick. Luna had given her dark, thorny eye make-up and fixed her wild hair with brooches of magical creatures. In the conjured full-length mirror, Hermione thought she looked, if not beautiful, then certainly _striking_. She looked, as Ginny said in an awed murmur, _like a witch._ She didn’t look as beautiful as at the Yule Ball - she’d put on weight since July, and her body hasn’t adjusted to it. But she looked fierce in the best way and she strode out with her friends, power in her step.

But as they descended to the Great Hall, the three of them were swamped inside a huge crowd, and suddenly, she felt herself fracturing. She turned away and purposefully lost herself in the swarm so Ginny wouldn’t drag her back. Picking her way through students and corridors she ended, without meaning it, at the kitchens.

She entered them with a breath of relief. She was absolutely stuffed after the feast, but food had become a way of coping that at least made sense.

Yet inside Draco goddamn Abraxas Malfoy was sat instructing three house-elves, looking every inch the pureblood. Looking like everything she had spent a year in a tent running from.

With a nod to the elves she said, “You always did prefer servants to friends.”

If he had returned with an insult, that would have been it, she reckons. They would have lashed at each other until one of them left, and then back to mutual invisibility.

But instead a flicker of unease crossed his face. He looked shocked to see her there - and in _that_ dress, as if he was surprised she could look good. He wore plain school robes, unsuited for the party, and, considering the food in front of him, it was likely he’d missed the feast too.

She thought of Crabbe, Malfoy’s last sycophantic friend, and how being on the side of cruelty didn’t mean deaths came easy. She wondered whether he would have had someone to sit with at the feast, if he’d gone.

“I didn’t mean that to come out so…”

“Honest?” he suggested.

“I’ve been known to place honesty over people’s emotions.”

“Honestly,” Malfoy said, with a wry twist of his mouth, “I think the world could do with more of it.”

She let that lie in the air: a compliment from Draco Malfoy. How the power of Wizarding Britain had shifted.

She took an apple from the counter opposite him. “Well. I’ve learned to lie better now.”

“Ah.”

“What can I say in my defence? War makes dicks of us all." That shocked a laugh out of him. She found herself watching the line of his pale neck. “Before you say _you’re actually quite funny, Granger,_ that piece of wisdom was Ginny’s. I’m still not fun.”

“Useful though,” he said. “You’re useful, and you’re fair.”

He offered her a chocolate tart from the spread before him. She shook her head - she only ate what she made. It was part of her compromise with the elves: she wouldn’t forcibly set them free and they would let her use their kitchens to cook. Mostly it was piles upon piles of pasta, and cookie dough made on mass. The elves looked almost physically hurt by it, but she didn’t have the time or the skill to do better.

Malfoy sighed, putting the delicious-looking chocolate tart on his own plate. “At least you usually have an _opinion_.”

That was… not what people usually choose to praise. Her intelligence, yes, her actions in the war, even her looks, on very rare occasion (though maybe more, considering _this dress_ ). But opinionated, bossy: those were words said about her, and used to mean _interfering mudblood girl._

“Haven’t you heard, Malfoy? Everyone’s tired of your opinions. We found the right one."

“I highly doubt you’re out of opinions, just because you won this particular fight.”

 _This particular fight_ , like it was some argument won in a pub. She’d forgotten who she was speaking to. She turned to go; she didn’t need to eat, really, and there were better places to hide from a party.

“That’s not what I-” Malfoy raked a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “I’m not questioning its importance, Granger. I just meant - everyone out there assumes everything is sorted. That the world is fixed. That there’s no more fighting to do.”

“Maybe we’re just tired.”

“Laws haven’t changed, the media is still anti muggle-born. The same purebloods are still in charge of the Ministry. They’re old buggers, but I doubt they’re _tired_.”

She began to speak in protest, but he waved his hand. “I'm not talking about Kingsley. But most of the rest of the Wizegamot kept their heads down under the Dark Lord, and now there is a convenient power vacuum for them to step into.”

“I’m sure you’d just love to fill it.”

“No.” Malfoy’s response was sharp. “I think we’ve learned I’m not to be trusted with power by now.” He sounded angry and scornful and disappointed. Probably annoyed that no one would let a Malfoy ooze his way to the top, anymore.

“They’ll try to sideline you, Granger, for what you are. Even though everything is supposed to have _changed_.” She wondered if he was mocking her.

“I know what it is to be up against prejudice Malfoy. I think I’ve had enough practise.”

“I had practice at being powerful, and I was still terrible.”

“You had practice at being a powerful douchebag, Malfoy. And you _excelled_.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgement. She read it as: _well played, Granger_. 

“I should go-”

“Yeah,” he replied quickly. “Parties to attend, drinks to enjoy.”

 _Doubtful_. When she drank at the first victory party the lack of alertness sent her into paranoia. She started checking the exits, then aggressively questioned everyone about their loyalty to Harry and finally sat in a bubble of _protego_ until she passed out. Only the next morning when Harry came to find her and enclosed her in a hug did she realise that she had instinctively cast all the protections she had used on their tent around herself. It took the combined efforts of Harry, Ron and Bill to break through four different wards to find her.

So she wasn’t a big drinker, anymore.

“You won’t go to the party?” she asked Malfoy then, even though the answer was obvious. 

He lifted a glass of firewhisky and toasted her. “I hope you win against them, Granger. You lot deserve it. Even if Weasley is a prat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weekly update has arrived, and with it our first interaction between Hermione and Draco. Let me know if you'd like more of that flashback style to their Hogwarts year... 
> 
> I'll be posting again next Friday. Apologies that this one is a day late - I *had* written this yesterday, but drinks with my friends in the evening continued into the morning!
> 
> And thank you to everyone who left kudos, comments and subscribed! This is my first proper work on A03, and it's so lovely to hear from you all.


	3. Lavender Bloody Brown

The next day Ginny announces that she hasn't annoyed her favourite brother enough recently (Ginny's code for 'I'm worried about you'), so they organise an impromptu Sunday meal at George and Angelina's apartment. They all bring a dish, inviting everyone who is free out of their revolving circle of friends. 

At lunch Angelina and George joke and smile and perform their role of the happy-go-lucky couple so well Hermione almost believes it. But on her way to the toilet she walks past their open bedroom door and spots a sleeping bag, at a distance from the bed. The floor is littered with objects and clothes, as if thrown during a fight. When she returns to the loud, laughing group in the kitchen, she starts paying attention to how George snaps at Ron and the way his face pulls when Ginny leads him aside and asks him if he’s doing okay. Hermione had told Harry he needn’t apologise to George – it wasn’t _his_ fault – but she watches Harry say sorry to George and then later quietly to a tired-looking Angelina, his face struck with guilt. 

So the Sunday Prophet has done its work, it seems.

As plates are cleared away, her stomach satisfied for the next week at least, she announces she has to leave. Work. It causes a series of groans, and Ron claims that she’s just too chicken to play Wizards Against Humanity, but she threatens to transfigure him into a chicken and he backtracks remarkably quickly.

She almost invites him to come with her. She has a meeting with a (hopefully) sympathetic top Prophet writer to outline her plan for a set of basic press regulations. It’s in muggle London, because the newspaper would blow this up in her face if they knew.

It’s also Lavender Bloody Brown, but Hermione’s an adult enough to work around that. 

She knows bringing Ron would be the smarter move. He and Lavender are ridiculously close for exes, and he has an eye for good strategy.

But Hermione can’t stomach the awkwardness of it. He had chosen the warmer, lovelier, smiling woman over her the instant they broke up six years ago, and however definite his and Lavender’s subsequent split was, she couldn’t bear the three of them sitting in a muggle cafe, two exes and the man they once loved. She wants, desperately, to ask Lavender if anything happened between them while she and Ron were still together, to watch Ron’s face while she asks it, and finally know.

But because she has some healthy boundaries, somewhere, she goes to face Lavender alone. She tries to stay quiet and polite, taking a resentful sip of hipster coffee as the Prophet’s _Miss Fortune_ (yes, that’s a section) writer explains that her regulations will never work. 

“It’s not that I _disagree_. The Prophet takes things too far - they did it in the war and they’ve done it since. But it’ll never pass the Wizegamot, because you’re forgetting something important.” Lavender’s blonde curls bounce so perfectly that it must be magical.

“I'm breaking wizarding tradition, I know.”

“It’s not that. Look, why do you think my horoscope section is so popular?”

 _Because the magical world is full of superstitious idiots_. This conversation is going to be full of things she doesn't say.

“Wizards are bored, Hermione. Bored and nosy. You were our heroes, and none of you wanted to gossip about your public lives. So, we speculate. Not everyone is as practical as you.”

 _Practical,_ that one bites. Practical was one of the words Ron had used, to say incapable of romance.

“Plus, you do get the benefits of fame.”

The fame of dating war-hero Ron Weasley had been a great boost to Lavender’s journalism career, but she is definitely not allowed to say that. Ron had jumped down her throat for even implying it, back then. She looks around the cafe idly to stop herself from snapping.

The woman at the next table is distractingly familiar, now she looks at her. Five foot nothing, sharp cheekbones, with edgy cropped black hair. Is that _Pansy_ _Parkinson_? She has seen that face smirking at her from every floating billboard in Diagon Alley.

But how in Camelot did the Prophet’s prominent gossip journalist and model find her here? 

She glares at Lavender. Was this a set-up? Lavender speaking to her so Parkinson could report it and print in the Prophet tomorrow? She’d hadn’t expected that from her old roommate. She wishes, again that she had brought Ron, if only to show him this. She stands up to leave.

“Thank you for the seat,” Parkinson says, sitting herself in Hermione’s now vacant chair. Right, so clearly they weren’t pretending anymore, now she had been spotted. Hermione grabs her folders and turns away. “Really Granger,” Parkinson drawls. “Fame is much less of a price for the war than the one you were expecting, isn’t it? It’s certainly less than others paid.” She turns back to see Parkinson’s eyes flicker to Lavender.

She had thought Lavender had some operation, because her face is perfect now, pristine and untouched, but something in Lavender’s flinch suggests… Well, scars from werewolf claws never truly fade, she should have remembered that. It must take up a lot of energy, to apply an underlying glamour every single day.

But that’s not what’s important here. “Is this you trying to catch me out, Parkinson?”

“It’s a noble effort Granger, your whole press regulation thing. But it’s undoubtedly doomed. And no, I won’t be reporting your conversation tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” She has no way of telling if Parkinson is speaking truth, but there’s no harm in being polite.

“Oh, it’s not altruism. No one really _cares_ that you’re trying to save the world, Grangey, they only care who we can pretend you’re fucking.”Parkinson raises Hermione’s half-drunk coffee cup to toast her sarcastically.

Lavender glares at Parkinson and Parkinson lessens her aggressive posture minutely, returning the cup to its saucer with a delicate tinkle of crockery.

“There is a way to do it,” Lavender says, into the awkward silence of two school-yard enemies. “That’s why Pansy is here. It was her idea, really, once I told her about-”

“You told her I contacted you?”

“I trust her,” Lavender says simply. There’s something in Parkinson’s face at that, that suggests it means more than she would have guessed Lavender’s trust would mean, to someone like Parkinson.

“You could buy the Prophet out,” Lavender continues, clearly oblivious to whatever Parkinson’s face was doing.

“Is it for sale?”

Lavender gives a dainty shrug. “Not officially, but it’s struggling. Harry has enough money to tempt them. And honestly you could make a fortune if you did a few publicity stunts. Use the cash to shake the editors’ boots a little.”

The possibility of it is… amazing. Nothing more printed about Angelina’s potential affair, no more vicious articles about “Loony Lovebad’s” wacky opinions. Keep werewolf-baiting out the press, and finally silence the rumours that Bill would rip them all to shreds on a full-moon night. She wouldn’t have to hear Ministry colleagues complain that they’d read that Fleur’s veela magic was seducing the Minister for Magic.

They would be able to walk through magical London without cameramen stalking them. Harry could lessen some of the extreme protections on his house, whose address was outed by the Prophet each time he moved.

 _And yet…_

Hermione sighs. “That would be amazing. But it would also be the exact opposite of what these regulations mean.” The Prophet had been independent since the war ended, had developed a reputation for hounding the rich and influential, not kowtowing to them. They’d be setting the precedent that money controls the media. That the rich own public opinion. It would be a shitty thing to do, just to ease their lives.

“That’s what I thought you’d think,” Lavender says agreeably. Why is she being so _nice_ , when Hermione is still so awkward? “If you come up with a better plan, or get more support, I’m willing to listen. I think you’re right in principle. As does Pansy, though she’ll never tell you that.”

Parkinson stretches out her legs and places her heels on Lavender’s chair. “Principles are pesky things. But do stay in touch, Granger,” she says, dismissively. “And give Ginny the option to buy us all. She has all Potter’s cash, and I reckon she’d do it, for George.”

Parkinson shouldn’t know that this is about George. Hermione forces her face to remain unbothered. 

“And, Hermione?” Lavender says. “I’ve heard some rumours about other buyers. And from their surnames, they wouldn’t treat you well. Just – be careful, okay?”

She feels terrible for suspecting Lavender, when it’s clear now that she cares. Hermione nods at her, and leaves money to pay for her coffee. As she walks out the cafe she looks back at the two women. Lavender huffily lifts up Parkinson’s feet and drops them off her chair and Parkinson throws her head to smirk at Lavender. The blonde-haired girl giggles and Parkinson…

There’s something about how the Slytherin angles herself towards Lavender’s smiles.

 _Oh_ , Hermione thinks, a little blankly. _Huh._ It makes her feel almost sympathetic to Parkinson, because although she’d heard Lavender talking about girls as well as guys back at school, Lavender was never subtle about expressing affection, and there was definitely no Pan-Pan necklace.

 

*** 

She does end up heading to the office, walking through the empty corridors of her department (it is a Sunday after all, most people have lives). She hurries past the Malfoy poster still pinned to the receptionist’s desk. She’d always wondered how much Parkinson knew about her then-friendship with Malfoy. Parkinson had graduated on time, so she hadn’t repeated the year with them, but her and Malfoy had stayed close, as far as she could tell. The Prophet paired the two of them together in some recurring on-off relationship, which, from the pictures, had been sexual for a couple of years after the war and then filtered off.

Unless Malfoy had bribed the Prophet after that point.

Well, it’s not like she’d have to see Parkinson again anytime soon. She tries to settle into getting some work done in her office, but finds herself moving from one task to another, checking through memos without dealing with any of them.

And it turns out, with a click of her door, that she spoke too soon.

Because just two hours after the awkward coffee with Lavender, Parkinson strides into Hermione’s office like she owns it. Hermione considers chucking her out, but instead shuts the door behind her and casts three strong privacy charms. There was no way this conversation would be idle chit-chat.

“Two times in one day, Parkinson. Lovely.”

The woman leans against Hermione’s desk. “I just couldn’t get enough of you.”

Then she undoes a bundle of photographs on the desk. Angelina kissing a man in a back alley, in an office straddling his lap, laughing with him in a kitchen Hermione recognises, one that her friends were probably still laughing in right now. 

And the man…

Hermione collects the photos together and turns them over so she doesn’t have to look.

“Disgusting, right?” Parkinson says. “And they accuse us old purebloods of incest.”

“He isn’t George’s brother.” But even as she denies it, she knows he’s as close as. And that these photos in front of her would break George’s marriage and his closest friendship. She stews in it, waiting for the blackmail demands.

“Three weeks,” Parkinson finally says. “That should do it, don’t you think? I’m sure you can scavenge around for enough galleons in that time.”

“Is this a warning, Parkinson, or a threat?”

The woman tilts her head. “Yes.”

Why hadn’t they published these already? This was one hell of a scoop, and not even a lie for once.

“You’re not the type to offer things for free,” Hermione levels.

“There won’t be much room for a gossip reporter in a Potter-owned Prophet. And this story offends the head of the only other decent wizarding media brand.”

“So, you want me to assure your job in this hypothetical where I apparently buy out the Prophet?”

“Well, I’d take a binding contract over your assurances, thanks.”

“I didn’t realise you cared about _decent,_ anyway. Why not _Witch Weekly_?”

A tiny blush of pink spreads on Parkinson’s cheeks. “They don’t want a horoscope writer.”

“And you have some intense desire to fortune tell… _oh._ Lavender? You’re doing this for Lavender?”

“Honestly, Granger, must you be so _upfront_? I’m doing you a favour.”

She was still suspicious. Too much of this didn’t make sense. “Why not Ginny, though? She has a lot more incentive to protect George.”

“You came on recommendation.”

“From _Lavender_?”

“Obviously not from Lavender, you idiot.” 

She and Pansy Parkinson didn’t share any friends or connections. The most they had interacted was Parkinson insulting her in print for Merlin’s sake! Unless…

 _Malfoy_?

Something in her warms before she shuts down on it. Maybe he had recommended her to Parkinson as the gullible fool of the Golden Trio. The one inclined to sympathise with Slytherins, if they showed a little weakness. No doubt this whole interest in Lavender was fake, because Malfoy knew she would fall for the idea of a Slytherin in love.

Or, the younger Hermione would have fallen for it.

“Six weeks,” she states. “Six weeks, and I’d like you to leave now, Parkinson.” 

“No way am I holding on that long. If my editor gets wind of this, I lose my scoop, my cut-throat reputation _and_ my job.”

“I can’t rack up that money in twenty-one days.” Really, she can’t come up with a better plan in that time. Hermione needed one hell of a plan to defeat this.

“Fine!” Parkinson exclaims. “One month. One month, and then I expose Weasley and Johnson’s marriage for the shambles it is.”

One month, and George loses the two people he clung to after losing his twin.

Parkinson grabs some of Hermione’s floo powder and chucks it in the office fireplace. She leaves the photos where they are; she must have numerous copies. 

When she’s gone, Hermione picks up each photo and throws it into the burning fireplace and watches them darken, and gradually reduce to black ash.

Then she picks up the floo powder, calls out the address of Malfoy’s apartment and steps into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... today is not a Friday *hides behind an apologetic smile* 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has kudos'd or commented! Posting on fanfiction sites for the first time properly is such a strange, lovely experience, and I really appreciate y'all. Let me know if you could/couldn't figure out who Angelina was cheating with - I hope I left enough clues.
> 
> I also started Tumblr this week, and if you want to help teach me how the hell to use it (I'm not as old as that makes me sound), I'm wolfram-matter on there :)


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